The Lame Channel

Usually at night, before I fall asleep, I watch some TV in bed. I find it helps me wind down from the day where I’m either still calculating numeric things in my head, trying to figure out what just happened on “Lost”, or thinking thoughts like “If you were in a quiet, serious, corporate meeting with a CEO and you suddenly stood up, raised a leg and let rip with a gigantic, window rattling fart, what sort of reaction would you get?”

Not that there’s a whole lot of TV worth watching. And late at night pickings are even thinner.

Usually I end up watching people hoarding things or chasing ghosts on A&E or I’ll put on the godawful TLC. When you’re trying to get in sleep mode, it doesn’t do to watch things that require coherent thought.

I have an unhealthy relationship with TLC. I detest it in principle yet I am inexplicably drawn to its badness, mainly because I like to yell things at its shows, which gets rid of a lot of pent up aggression. It’s like they got hit hard by the recession, fired all their staff and employed a bunch of half witted drunks to control their programming line up.

I mean how many shows can one channel feasibly broadcast featuring people with unnaturally large amounts of offspring? Seemingly there is no limit, because TLC have about forty of them. It’s like they thought “Oh! ‘Jon and Kate plus Eight’ drew a crowd, therefore, what we need is a metric fuckload of shows about people who pop out crotch-monkeys like Pez!”

There is a show on there called, “19 Kids and Counting”. It used to be “17 Kids and Counting” but the matriarch of the show kept blasting new sprogs out of her vajingle like a Thai hooker popping out ping pong balls in a salty downtown bar. So now they have 19 kids.

And counting.

Some of their grandkids are older than their kids. That’s fucked up! To use an old internet cliche:

Seriously, who wants to have 19 kids? Can you even remember all their names? There are kindergarten classes with less children. Isn’t there a point somewhere where you think "You know what I’d like? I’d like to not be pregnant for five minutes and wear something that doesn’t involve elastic. I’d like to be able to not fit a bowling ball in my vagina. I would like to see my goddamn feet just once.”?

 At what point do you stop “wanting a big family” and start being addicted to over-populating the northern hemisphere? Who the hell can afford 19 kids? Is the father head of a Drug Cartel?

What TLC actually need is a show about the benefits of contraception or a show about how to become a millionaire really fast and easily so you can feed 19 kids.

Stupid TLC.

Maybe tonight I’ll watch the History Channel instead so I can watch various people do various dangerous things on ice.

The Olympics You Really Want

I’ve had a nice, couch potato-y few days, due to the holiday on Monday. Not a productive thing was accomplished at all. I did manage to eat almost everything in the fridge, however, and drink a half bottle of Peach Schnapps, so I may not be productive but I sure was happy.

I watched a little Olympic action too and came to some conclusions. I mean we all enjoy watching a frantically snappy run down the Luge or skiiers jumping off of a mountain with the utmost grace, but if I ran the Olympics, things would be so much more fun. My Olympics would involve competitions that even the lowest echelons of athletic society could enjoy and excel at, to boost their spirits after they’d come in 56th at downhill skiing or something else fancy like that.

I think I’d introduce a few new events to liven things up a bit. Like the “Gold Medal Stupendous Cameltoe” event. Speed skaters and downhill skiiers of all competence levels can compete for gold in this saucy race, showcasing what God gave them for a medal. Sort of like “Athletes Gone Wild!” Only with more lycra and without Joe Francis being a twat.

I know. I don't post for a whole week then I come back with this disrespectful rubbish. I'm awesome.

Shorty

Today the Internet's been full of weird things. Like this Buzz business that appeared in our Gmail and that I (and some of you) have been abusing like crazy little demons of mischief.

I also read about Michael Jackson’s autopsy results. They were way less interested in his cause of death (insomnia medication overdose) than they were in the fact he had a tattoo to cover his receding hairline, his nose tip was held on with a band-aid and he was gaunt and pale. Which...I mean, I don't know about you, but I was floored. Michael Jackson did weird shit? Really? And a dead dude's gaunt and pale? Since when?

And allegedly Billie Jean was not his lover.

Then I read this thing about that slimy assloaf, John Mayer, who I think looks like a cross between the ice truck killer from “Dexter” and old Skeletor, Marc Anthony. He was spouting off through his twisted little racoon face about how amazing Jessica Simpson was in bed. Which surprised me because previously, I’d always envisioned sex with Jessica Simpson to be like lying on top of a cold, scaly, dead fish while she farts, stares at the ceiling and asks questions like, “Is Germany like…really full of germs?”

Honestly, I’m joking. I’ve really never, ever thought about sex with Jessica Simpson till right now. And if it helps, yes, I feel violated.

So that’s how I procrastinated today away. Reading titillating details about celebrities and feeling superior while trying to figure out how I could get a whole Creme Egg in my mouth at once.

You’re welcome.

Weekend Shenanigans Or Lack Thereof

Monday, yay!

I jest.

I seem to have done a thing to my neck. Last night I couldn’t turn my head more than a few degrees in either direction without looking like I might be attempting some eighties’ robotic dance and every time I rolled onto my left side in the night I emitted a yelp that sounded like I’d accidentally bloated up to about 600lbs then decided to sit on a puppy. It was most disconcerting.

I blame the weather. It snowed all weekend long meaning I frowned more than usual and all that extra upper body muscle contorting meant I cricked things that shouldn’t be cricked. That and the fact I went to the movies twice this weekend and had to sit still for two hours straight both days, didn’t help at all.

Incidentally, one of the movies I saw was “The Road”. I didn’t go into it expecting to be rolling in the aisles holding my sides (unless an unexpected bout of appendicitis reared its ugly head) but really. Is there any more depressing movie in the history of movies? I have a feeling if you watched “The Road”and maybe “Schindler’s List” in a row, one grey Sunday afternoon, you’d consider sticking your whole head in the blender. I mean, I liked it and everything. I just wanted to drink an entire bottle of tequila after it.

The other movie was “Up In The Air” which a lot of people didn’t like, calling it boring and slow. Me though, I loved it. It’s my speed, because you know…I’m boring and slow myself. Especially in the mornings. Jesus Christ. I make no sense at all. I’m like Nicolas Cage trying to play a physics professor.

Anyway, I think George Clooney is fast becoming my favourite actor. I mean this sincerely. I don’t find him attractive practically at all, so saying “George Clooney might be my favourite actor” is frustrating because people assume you’re just hot for the guy like every other woman on Earth seems to be. And well…I’m not. But I think he’s a good actor. I like most of his movies. I like his characters even though they’re often pretty much the same character. I can’t think of anyone else I find as watchable yet don’t want to do sexy things with. I can’t explain it really.

Plus the movie just spoke to me. I identified with it a lot, since I’m so fond of being on the move, of limiting my ties. I liked that they didn’t cop out and give it a standard happy ending, making me hate it. It was real. It didn’t preach. I like that. Well done, Jason Reitman. Sorry that tripe “Avatar” is probably going to overshadow you at the Oscars.

And no, I did not watch the Superbowl. I couldn't even tell you who was IN the Superbowl let alone who won, that's how much I care. I wouldn't care about the Superbowl even if it was sitting on my head singing sea shanties.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have stuff to do before I get yelled at.

Fragmented

Today’s an exciting day. I really don’t want to do anything productive at all. Nothing painty or wordy or any other –y word you can think of. It’s about anticipation!

How will it all end?

I don’t mean the world, I’m not that deep. No, I mean “Lost”. Because tonight sees the beginning of the end - the very last season. Where we might stand a chance of finding out what the bejeezus we’ve been watching for the past six seasons. Where we anticipate another 20 something weeks of scratching our heads going “What. The. Fuck.” and trying to figure out what time zone we’re in and who the shit IS John Locke anyway?

I’m constantly amazed at my love of “Lost”, what with my severe hatred for network TV shows in general and convoluted ones in particular. “Lost” is preposterous. It is. You know it and I know it. But it’s preposterous in the most brilliant, thought provoking and exciting ways imaginable. There’s never been a show like it and there never will again. It’s the adventure show to end all adventure shows.

In other news, if you’re bored and you want a fun online pastime, I have just the thing for you. Just go on to YouTube, pull up a Taylor Swift video and say something mean about it. The comments of utter indignity you get in response will amuse you for hours.

I’ve been thinking a bit about Taylor Swift the past few days since everyone’s been going on about her woeful Grammy performance. I don’t know much about her or her music so I pulled some up to check it out so I knew what the hell everyone was talking about and I think I’ve sussed the whole Swift phenomenon. Her record label obviously thought, “This girl is a package deal. She’s a little bit of everything. She plays guitar, she writes some of her own cute little songs, she’s pretty, she’s fresh faced wholesome American, she’s super marketable, she pronounces words all country like, she’s young as fuck, therefore, it really doesn’t matter too much that she can’t actually sing”.

Because I know that sounds mean right – after all how many Grammy’s do I have? None. I know, fuck you Veg. But have you actually listened to her sing? It’s not great. I mean on record she’s passable, but let’s be honest – these days you could put a chimp in front of a mike and produce a great song with all the gadgetry that exists for vocal enhancement. Live though, you can’t hide behind gimmicks. Her voice might fly in an indie garage band or a karaoke club or something but big time country singers have voices. Big, huge, rednecky, sassy voices. She does not. At all. I’m baffled at her success. She seems like a nice enough girl. I don’t mind her. She seems good natured and perky and her songs are annoyingly catchy. But singing? Not her forte. There I said it. I should’ve pointed that all out on YouTube and gotten a response from some goddamn 14 year old professor of music, like:

‘U R h8r bitch can U sing no. Taylr is awsum h8r U no nuthin’

I guess if none of your fans can even spell out a whole word, they’re not going to give two shits if your singing’s a little substandard, right?

YouTube comments are my favourite thing ever. It’s like a special club where security frisk you at the door, only in the case of YouTube it’s to make sure your IQ is less than that of a cabbage, you have anger issues and that you can’t tell the difference between a computer keyboard and the text pad on your phone.

Good times.